


love's a universe beyond obey

by hoosierbitch



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Baking, Developing Relationship, Domestic, Food Sex, Heist, M/M, Schmoop, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 14:14:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosierbitch/pseuds/hoosierbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Neal has bruises, Moz makes cake, and everybody sleeps on the fold-out couch. </p>
            </blockquote>





	love's a universe beyond obey

**Author's Note:**

>  This is for [](http://photoash.livejournal.com/profile)[**photoash**](http://photoash.livejournal.com/), who is the best cheerleader ever. The title's taken from an E.E. Cummings [poem](http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/eecummings/316).

When Moz turned five his mother gave him a Faberge egg. It was beautiful, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and he loved it for its colors and textures and fragility. They didn’t always have very much money, but every so often his mother would come home with statues that would shine in the light or nice silverware or birthday presents that took his breath away.

“You have to be very careful with it,” his mother warned him. He was already cradling it in both of his sweaty hands, resting it against his chest as he carried it into his bedroom. He wrapped it in a knit sweater when he was done looking at it and put it in the cardboard box beside his bed.

He didn’t need her warning. He knew that the world was a dangerous place, that the people in it were out to get them, and that fragile things should be protected.

*

“He’ll pass as fifteen _easy_ ,” Jason assured him, counting out the money Moz had just handed him.

“Yeah,” Moz replied. “Because he _is_ fifteen. I need a professional for this job, not some kid barely out of his diapers.”

“I’m not fifteen,” the kid insisted. At least his voice had changed, but the note of petulance in it did little to reassure Moz as to his maturity. “I turned seventeen in January.”

“Don't lie to a liar, kid. It’s pointless. And unbecoming.”

“My name's Neal,” the boy informed him. “And I really am seventeen.” He handed Moz a driver's license. If the card was a fake it was a damned good one. Even the dirt ground into it felt right. One corner was worn more than the other three – most counterfeiters tried too hard to wear down their fakes symmetrically. It was either real, or one of the best fakes Moz had ever seen.

“He’s cheap, and he’ll do whatever you tell him to do. Does it really matter how old he is?”

Despite the fact that Jason made his skin crawl, he did have a point. Moz needed this job to work out and he was running out of time. If there were any other options open to him he wouldn’t have come here in the first place. Jason was nothing if not a last resort.

“No,” Moz was forced to admit. “I guess it doesn't matter. Neal, right? My name's Moz.” He held out his hand and was impressed by Neal's firm grip. Even more impressed by what looked like clay caked underneath his fingernails. “Let's get to work.”

*

“You _live_ here?”

Moz bristled. He'd been living in the apartment for nearly a year, but he hadn't quite...settled in yet. To put it simply: there were more cardboard boxes than there were pieces of furniture. One bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen, and a living room/dining room combination. He scratched the back of his neck. “I know it's not much, but it has everything I need. Besides – if you do your job right you won’t be staying here for more than a couple of weeks.” He could tell from the state of the kid’s clothes that he couldn’t afford a place of his own for the duration of the con. And he knew there was no way Jason would pay for it. “The, uh, the couch is a fold-out, so – that should be okay.”

Neal walked the rest of the way into the apartment and sat down on the couch. “I've slept on worse,” he said. “So - where's your TV?”

Moz sighed. This could not be over soon enough.

*

In theory the job was pretty straightforward. Moz had been contacted by a private collector who had his eye on a Kandinsky, which had been purchased at an auction three years earlier. Raymond Fischer was the current owner, and he kept the painting in his heavily-guarded mansion. It wasn't the only priceless piece he owned, not by a long shot, and his security would put most museums to shame. But Raymond was also a family man, and therein lay their opening. All of the entrances were watched by alarms and cameras – the only blind spot was in the garage, and the only way into the garage was with the right remote control. A remote control that Raymond Fischer made available to no one – except for his landscaping company. Moz smiled as he slid the surveillance pictures across the table to Neal.

“But it's just a bunch of kids,” Neal said.

“Exactly. They’re students from his daughter's high school. He's an upstanding member of the community, giving back some of his millions of dollars to keep his kid's friends in milkshakes and candy bars. They're short a couple of hands – you approach them, ingratiate yourself in their organization, and you'll be able to get into the garage and disable the security system for when we come back later at night. Make sense?”

“How am I supposed to get in contact with these kids?”

Moz smiled. “You, my friend, are going to high school.”

*

He put together a fake background for Neal, brought him to Roosevelt High School, and registered him for classes. “My older brother’s such a good guardian,” Neal confided in Martha, who was working the front desk. “After my parents left, it was – I was just really glad to have him, you know?” He had her eating out of the palm of his hand within minutes.

“Which math class did you say you were supposed to be in, sweetie?”

“Algebra II,” Moz answered. The woman patted Neal on the hand and printed out his class schedule.

“We hope you’ll do well here at Roosevelt. You come see me if you have any problems, you understand?” Neal’s answering smile was genuine enough that Moz took a second look at Martha. If Neal had really been who they were pretending he was, her offer of help would have been a generous one.

“Thanks,” Moz said. “We really appreciate it.” He nudged Neal out the door and gave him a slap on the back of the head as soon as they were out of sight. “Stop hitting on married middle-aged women, kid, you’re going to get yourself into trouble.”

Neal smirked. “Got me into the same math class as the daughter, didn’t she? Don’t question my methods.”

“You’re not old enough to have ‘methods,’ Oliver.”

“Oliver?”

“You know, Dickens? _Oliver Twist_?”

“My name’s Neal.” He sounded confused.

“I’ll get you a copy later on. Right now, I believe you’re supposed to be in World History.” Neal groaned and Moz elbowed him in the side. “Have fun, little bro. I’ll see you at three o’clock.”

*

They fell into an easy routine. Moz still woke up with the sun, only now he made coffee in the mornings as well as tea. The sounds he made in the kitchen – no matter how quiet he tried to be – would wake Neal up. Neal would drink his coffee, leave for school, and Moz would run errands and tie up those few last loose ends that needed to be cleaned up before they could make their move. Neal would come back to the apartment at three. He’d do his homework – which usually took him all of thirty minutes – and then spend the rest of the day driving Moz all of the way out of his goddamn mind.

“I'm bored. You don't have a TV, you don't want me to go out – what the hell am I supposed to do?”

Moz thought about it for a while. “You like poetry?”

“No,” Neal said. “It's boring.”

Moz went to the bookshelf and grabbed his collection of Whitman. It made a satisfying thump when he tossed it onto Neal's stomach. “Try this.”

About half an hour later, Neal came over and held the book up in front of Moz's face. “Is he talking about _blowjobs_?”

Moz reread the line Neal's slim finger was pointing at. “Yup.”

“Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Moz?”

“No. And don't call me that, it's ridiculous.”

“Is Moz short for something? Moses? Hey, are you Jewish? I bet you had a Bar Mitzvah and everything, didn’t you?”

“Sit down, read your softcore porn like a good little boy, and leave me alone or _so help me –_ ”

Neal huffed at him impatiently, but when Moz glanced over at the couch half an hour later, Neal’s nose was firmly buried in _Leaves of Grass_.

He'd make an intellectual of the kid yet.

*

Neal talked his way into the landscaping business in under a week, began working that first weekend (which got him out of the apartment most of the day _thank God_ ), and had an impressively comprehensive sketch of the garage layout by the following Tuesday.

After that Moz began seriously drilling him on the security system to prep for the following weekend. He set Neal up with a partially dismantled model and went into the kitchen to make dinner. Neal abandoned the dining room table after a minute and followed pretty quickly on his heels. He moved aside the salad bowl to take his regular place on the counter. Moz wondered if he should feel disturbed by how much space in his apartment Neal had laid claim to, but between making lasagna and untangling the wires that Neal had accidentally crossed, he had too much other shit to do.

“So I’ll connect this wire with…no, don’t tell me, I’m going to figure it out. Can we have garlic bread?”

“If you tell me which wire you’re going to cross that with.”

Neal sighed and stared at the mess he’d made of the alarm system. “It’s – wait, if I follow the blue from here, and I pulled the yellow out of – it’s the yellow, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

Moz got out the garlic.

*

In many ways Neal was like the little brother he’d never had. Irritating, underfoot, eager to please. But in other ways, he was…he was something else.

Neal was gorgeous. That was just fact. He was also energetic, intelligent, and clever. He devoured every bit of information Moz tossed his way and came back with questions that Moz had never thought of before, he charmed every delivery person who came by the apartment into forgetting to ask for their tip, he had Raymond’s daughter one step away from asking him to the Sadie Hawkin’s dance, and Moz – he had Moz jerking off to thoughts of his lips and the pale strip of skin he revealed every time he bent over. If they were sitting next to each other on the couch Neal would end up leaning against his side, when they ate dinner Neal would steal from his plate, when they worked together at the table Neal seemed to be drawn to him like they were magnetized. It was flattering, and vaguely disturbing, and unfortunately distracting. It was worst in the mornings when Neal’s hair was still sleep-rumpled and his good morning smiles were too lopsided to be fake.

After another week Neal had drawn up the entire floor plan and had a solid grasp of how to disable the alarms. At the end of April Raymond Fischer and his daughter flew to Austin for his brother’s wedding.

It was time.

*

Neal came back at seven-thirty Saturday night with a giant smile on his face, and Moz knew they were in.

“Any problems?”

Neal spread his arms out wide. “Easy as pie. The other guys went into the house to get a drink, I stayed in the garage to put more gas in the mower – presto chango, no more alarms.”

“Alright. Let’s get moving.” They dressed in dark clothing, caught the bus to a lot with the car Moz had acquired for the night, and then drove to the Fischer’s neighborhood.

Moz felt the familiar buzz of paranoia set in the second they got out of the car. Apparently, Neal felt it, too.

“Dude – are you _shaking_?”

“It’s just my body letting me know that my adrenal glands are functioning normally,” Moz answered, fighting down the desire to reach for the inhaler that he’d long-since stopped carrying with him. “I’m ready for anything.”

“Is there something about this job that you’re not telling me?” Neal’s eyes in the streetlight were huge and bright, and for some inexplicable reason staring into them helped Moz focus.

“No. I just…”

“This isn’t your favorite part of the gig, is it?” Neal’s voice was soft, understanding. Moz shook his head. “Well, lucky for us, it’s the part I’m best at.” Neal held out his hand, and, after glancing around to make sure no one was watching (although, if someone saw two men dressed in black approaching a dark house, he’d guess that the fact that they were holding hands would be pretty far down the list of suspect behavior). Moz reached out and grabbed hold.

Neal led on the approach to the house. They ducked behind a row of shrubbery (which Neal had trimmed to make room for them) and then belly-crawled to the wooden lattice, which they climbed up to the second-floor porch and its sliding glass door. Then, it was Moz’s turn.

Neal hadn’t disabled the alarm so much as provided a backdoor that Moz would be able to manipulate. It took a few minutes. It probably would have gone quicker if Neal hadn’t been plastered against his side, playing lookout and backup at the same time.

“And – got it. Let’s get moving, Oliver.”

“Why can’t I be the Artful Dodger?”

Moz paused halfway through the living room. “You read the book?”

Neal blinked at him. “You bought it for me. Of course I read it.”

Moz couldn’t hide the grin that appeared on his face. “Right. Okay, Dodger – lead the way.”

Neal was quiet and quick on his feet. Moz could tell he’d be moving faster if he were on his own, and appreciated that he’d slowed to accommodate Moz’s pace. When they got in the daughter’s room Moz pulled out his bag of tools and got to work on the painting.

“Why's the picture in her room, anyway?”

“She likes it,” Moz said. Neal just stared at him. “He spoils her rotten, what are you going to do about it?”

“She liked a _Kandinsky_. So he bought it for her and then hung it up in her _bedroom_? Jeez. Remind me to get rich one day, huh?”

“Don't bother. Just stay interesting.” He started to cut the painting out of its frame and almost missed the look that Neal gave him, a mix confusion and disbelief – and something else, something that he couldn’t quite nail down.

When he got the painting out of the frame, he and Neal rolled it up carefully and tucked it into the protective tube.

“We got it,” Neal said breathlessly, eyes huge in his face. “I'm gonna – do you know what this means? Moz, we _got_ it.”

Something about Neal’s reaction was…off. Moz knew that Neal didn't care that much about the money. And he knew that the hold Jason had on the kids in his network was much more than professional.

“What, exactly, does this mean to you, Neal?”

Neal shook his head, wouldn't answer, but as soon as Moz had the case strapped to his back Neal surged forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t at all like he’d been fantasizing about. Seventeen wasn’t that young but for some reason when he dreamed about Neal he dreamed him…inexperienced. Fumbling. He always pictured himself in the position of the corrupter, the initiator – probably because some part of his conscience was trying to convince his libido that what he was doing was wrong.

Neal didn’t kiss like a teenager. He was too controlled for that, too smooth, even with the adrenaline of the big win coursing through his body. Neal kissed like an artist, like he’d been kissing Moz for years, kissed expertly enough that Moz couldn’t help but wonder what else Neal could do that well.

“This is a really bad idea,” Moz whispered when Neal let him up for air.

“Yeah,” Neal agreed. “You’re right. Let’s wait until we get back to the apartment. I don’t want to have to climb down that trellis with come in my pants.” He ground his erection against Moz’s and the protest that had half-formed on the tip of his tongue vanished in a rush of heat that started in his groin and ended with Neal back in his arms.

“Right. Apartment. Good plan.”

*

He changed his mind about twenty minutes later.

“You’re too young,” he insisted as they drove the car to the drop-off point.

“I’m, what – five years younger than you? Six?”

“Eight,” Moz corrected, feeling every one of his twenty-five years and then some.

“I’m old enough to consent.” Neal’s voice was determined and when Moz shut the car off Neal’s palm over his cock was warm and confident. “And I know what I want.”

When they got back to the apartment Moz realized that while Neal may have been sure about what he wanted, Moz? Had no idea.

“Should we – I don’t have condoms. I can run to the store and get some. Or – is that being presumptuous?”

“You’re adorable,” Neal informed him. “Are you clean?” Moz nodded. “Good for you. Now take your pants off and fuck me, or I’ll go to the nearest street corner and find someone who will.”

Moz may not have been as experienced as Neal apparently was, but he’d be damned if he was going to take that lying down. He toed off his shoes, pulled off his socks, and had just started to unbutton his cardigan when he looked up and saw Neal. Neal was naked. Neal was naked and unashamed and impatient and –

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, fabric forgotten in his fingers. Neal was lean, muscle and the strong lines of his bones visible underneath smooth, pale skin. Moz had been with a few people before, he’d watched a fair bit of pornography, and he owned more art books than he did poetry (which was saying something) and yet Neal was, without a doubt, the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. After a moment of silence ( _Moz’s mouth had dropped open, there was a small smile on Neal’s_ ) Neal stepped forward and took Moz’s cardigan in his hands to finish unbuttoning it for him.

“Have you done this before?”

“I’ve fucked a couple of people,” Moz forced himself to say, nerves building in his stomach. “But I’ve never, y’know, been the one on the bottom. Not that I won’t be on the bottom, I just haven’t, before, is all. So – so how do you want to do this?”

Neal went up onto his tiptoes and leaned forward to whisper into Moz’s ear, his lips brushing against the curve of cartilage. “I want you to fuck me.”

Moz wasn’t sure how they got from the living room to his bed, or where, exactly, they tossed his clothes, or how Neal had found his stash of lube, but none of that mattered because when he spread Neal out in his bed and pushed his slick fingers inside Neal’s body he absolutely feel apart. Started begging, pleading, _writhing_ on his mattress like a wet dream come to life.

“I’m ready,” Neal pleaded, after Moz spread three of his fingers as wide as they’d go inside Neal’s tight hole and started teasing with a fourth.

“Are you sure?” He licked a stripe up the underside of Neal’s cock and watched, fascinated, as precum dribbled onto the kid’s flat abs.

“Yes, fuck, I trust you – I trust you Moz, please just do it, fucking get inside of me, _please_. Moz, I need it so bad, I’ve been waiting for you for weeks – ”

Moz had to grab the base of his cock to keep from coming right then. “Get on your hands and knees and I’ll fuck you.”

He’d never done anyone without a condom before. The flushed red of his cock against Neal’s pink hole seemed unusually visceral, the colors vivid and immediate, the sensation more – more intimate and obscene. He could see a smear of his precum on the rim of Neal’s hole. Feel the painful stretch of Neal’s body trying to open for him.

“ _Fuck_ , you’re big.”

Neal was almost breathless. Moz grinned, because, yeah, in this department, he was quite a bit above average. He was only in about halfway and Neal was already swearing, rocking back and forth, the muscles of his back taut and glistening with sweat. “Keep going.” Neal bit off a scream when Moz thrust the rest of the way in, his arm folding beneath him. Moz had to hold his hips up to keep him in place.

Neal was, by far, the most attractive person he’d ever had sex with. And there was something intoxicating about making such a beautiful man come to pieces. Something powerful about the response he got when he pulled all the way out, something even better when he took a break and kissed the small of Neal’s back until the kid managed to push himself back up onto all fours and slowly impale himself on Moz’s erection.

He fucked Neal, hard, as hard as he wanted to, until the back of Neal’s thighs were red with the force of his thrusts and his weight was resting on his shoulders again. Moz rolled them over until he was flat on his back and Neal was sitting on his cock, pleading with Moz to give him just a _moment_ , just one second – his grip on Neal’s hips was tight, and the leverage he had when he pulled the boy down until he was completely seated on Moz’s dick was fucking _perfect_.

“I want to see you,” Neal gasped, and somehow he managed to completely turn himself around without lifting off of Moz's cock. He cried out the whole time – Moz could feel his ass spasming around him, knew it had to hurt, knew it was the best thing he’d ever felt before. Neal worked his hands through the hair on Moz's chest, unduly fascinated by it.

“I'm gonna come,” Neal said, but he didn’t even falter, sweat beading on his forehead, slicking down his floppy hair. He rubbed his cock and balls against Moz's stomach with every desperate undulation, his precum puddling on Moz's abs. “Please – ”

“What do you need?” Maybe he should offer to jerk him off, but his hands fit so perfectly on Neal’s hips. He didn't want to let go.

“Oh, god – tell me to come. Tell me to come _please_ – ”

The kid was crying. He was working himself like a pro on Moz's cock, begging him with every twist of his hips, the curl of his fingers, each bead of sweat on his chest – “Come for me,” Moz said, feeling like a fool, like an actor in a bad porno – but then Neal screamed, doubled over, and came all over himself. His ass tightened like a vise around Moz’s cock and Moz came a second later. He’d never come so suddenly before. His orgasm ripped through him like a flash of fire, like a detonation rippling in from his fingers and toes until it centered in his cock, his cock deep in this other man's body. Neal whined as he pulsed inside of him.

“I could get used to this,” Neal whispered, resting his forehead on Moz’s shoulder and stroking himself through the aftershocks.

“Then – then stay,” Moz offered. And maybe it was the endorphins speaking, but – but he liked Neal. He wanted to be there to watch Neal live out his life. Wanted to be there with him while he lived it. Wanted, selfishly, to be a part of it.

“Give me two weeks,” Neal said quietly. “And if I’m – if I’m not back after that, then just forget about me, okay?” Moz knew that that wasn’t an option anymore but he let Neal pretend it was. He wouldn’t make leaving harder for him. “But if I do come back, maybe, if it would be okay – your couch is really comfortable.”

Moz smiled. “So’s the bed.”

Two weeks later Neal came back with a black eye, a duffel bag, and a smile.

*

They spent the summer making iced tea with the leaves from mint plants that they grew in the window planters, fighting over the one chair that was directly in front of the air conditioning unit, and fucking on every horizontal surface in the apartment. And also once against the door.

When August rolled around Neal started to look for another job. Moz, who was working on copying a 700-page book of Israeli folktales, nudged him towards fences and contacts that he’d had experience with. Neal showed his appreciation with a demonstration of exactly how bendy he was.

A couple of weeks before Neal’s first job without Jason’s direction, Moz decided that they should go on a picnic.

“This is a stupid idea.” Neal sat in his usual place on the counter and watched Moz pack a paper bag with sandwiches and water bottles, a skeptical look on his face. “There are bugs out there. And it’s hot. And there will probably be families with dogs and kids and rabies – ”

“We’re not going to a park,” he interrupted, folding the top of the bag over to keep it closed. “Put your shoes on and carry this to the car, I’ll be down in a minute.” Neal obeyed (the way he always did, so habitually it made Moz nervous). When Neal was out of the apartment Moz went to his safe, got out his guns, and went down to the car.

His car was old. _Really_ old. “And it doesn’t have air conditioning and my window doesn’t open – are you trying to kill me?” Moz cranked up the radio and ignored him. “I’m melting into the seat cushions! I’m getting heat stroke! This is cruel and unusual. If you turn around, I’ll let you fuck me. Well I guess I’d do that anyway but I’ll – I’ll let you do something kinky. _Really_ kinky. Whatever you want. Please, Moz!” He changed the station to hard rock and kept on driving.

By the time he parked by the field he’d had in mind, Neal had collapsed into the corner of the seat. Moz got out of the car and collected the bag of food and a big blanket. It was hot out, with the sun blazing down, but he’d brought plenty of water. He grabbed the sunblock from the trunk and then the guns. Neal had started to get out of the car, but when he caught sight of the guns his eyes went huge and he shrank back.

“Come on,” Moz said. “I’m not going to shoot you.” Neal’s eyes flickered from the guns to Moz’s face a couple of times before he let go of the door.

“What are you going to do with those?” Neal sounded young, nervous, and Moz reminded himself that trust took time to earn.

“Have you ever used a gun before?” Neal shook his head. Moz set them down and then unfolded the blanket. “You should know how. Now that you’re getting into the big leagues. You’re going to be robbing people who have guns, or bodyguards – maybe the people you work with are going to be armed. You should know how to handle a gun.”

Neal decided that they should eat lunch first, so they unpacked the bag and lay down on the blanket, watching the clouds pass overhead.

He showed Neal how to take the guns apart, how to hold them, how to position his fingers if he wanted to shoot and how to pretend he was going to shoot when he wasn’t. Neal was as quick a study in this as he was in everything else, and after half an hour he was ready to start shooting. Moz picked an arbitrary target – a tree stump about thirty yards away – and watched Neal go through the steps. His mouth moved silently as he loaded the gun, repeating Moz’s instructions to himself as he cocked it and aimed.

Neal was frighteningly good. Hit the stump on his third try and then hit targets that were farther and farther away until Moz called it a day. “You didn’t use a gun when we went on the job together,” Neal mused quietly as they cleaned the guns. The sun was starting to set. Moz stared at the twilight hues and tried to figure out what to say.

“I used to carry.” Back when he was desperate for work, taking jobs he shouldn’t have taken. “It came in handy a couple of times. Showed people that I wasn’t kidding around.” He hesitated before he continued. He hadn’t ever told anyone else this before. “I don’t use it anymore. Having a gun with you – you go on a job, you’re already on edge, you’re already nervous. Putting your finger on a trigger when you’re like that – you can make decisions in the heat of the moment that you wouldn’t make normally.” It had been quick. Frighteningly quick. He’d still been recovering from the volume of the shot when he noticed the blood. “You’re going to make mistakes on the job. That’s inevitable. But you bring a gun, and the mistakes you make – you can’t take them back.” He shrugged. “You’ve got to decide if your own safety is worth that risk.” Moz had decided that it wasn’t.

Neal took the blanket from him and set it down before drawing him into a kiss. Neal looked fey, in the fading light, and his comfort was a warmth Moz had been needing for years.

*

Sometimes Neal would disappear. If he knew where he was going to go, he’d leave a note ( _out stealing Martha Washington’s love letters_ or _I heard Seattle was cool_ and once _I want to see which ways toilets really flush in the Southern hemisphere_ ). He’d return days, sometimes weeks later; often with money, a couple of times with bruises, always with entertaining and embellished tales of his exploits. Moz knew Neal well enough by then to know that at least some of the stories were nearly entirely falsehoods, but he had to trust Neal to take care of himself. Because Neal refused to let him help.

Moz couldn’t figure out whether his apartment was where Neal went when he needed a vacation from the rest of his life, or if – or if he was Neal’s life, now, if the clothes Neal left scattered in his bedroom and the notes to himself he scrawled in Moz’s notebooks meant _I live here_. He seemed…not careless, with his belongings, but – distant. More like a curator than an owner. As if none of the things he had really belonged to him.

The longest that Neal ever left without popping his head back through Moz's door and complaining about his lack of a television was five weeks. He didn’t leave a note, didn’t call, didn’t leave any trace behind that Moz could find to follow. He tried to distract himself with another job – deciphering a Russian legal document from the 14th century and making three copies of the translation – but two weeks after Christmas he heard the quiet click of his lock being picked and saw a curly brown head poke around, and it became hard to think about anything except for Neal.

“You’re back,” he said, stupidly, a dripping quill in his right hand splattering ink on a nearly-finished forgery. Neal eased the rest of the way around the doorframe and stood with his back against the wall, hands behind his back, obviously forcing himself not to fidget.

He’d lost weight. Moz wasn’t sure how much weight it was actually possible to lose in five weeks, but Neal hadn’t had much to spare to start with. And now the angles of his face were painfully sharp, the points of his shoulders poked through his thin t-shirt, and there was a new haunted look in his bruise-dark eyes. “You should put on a sweater,” Moz said quietly. “Until I get the heat turned up.”

“I’m not going to stay,” Neal interrupted. Moz could see his fingers already edging towards the doorknob. “I just wanted to stop in. Let you know I was okay.”

“I appreciate that,” he replied, trying to figure out what he could do or say that would get Neal to come the rest of the way into his apartment. To get the look of _prey_ out of his eyes. “You can stay if you want to. I was just about to start dinner – I probably won’t be able to finish it all myself.” He shrugged. “I can just toss the leftovers away, though, no big deal.” Neal’s indecision was written all over his face, his grumbling stomach clear as crystal. “I’d appreciate the company – it’s been a bit lonely.”

He got up from the table and went into the kitchen, careful not to get any closer to Neal’s position by the door. “I’m working on a manuscript that you might like. Why don’t you take a look at the bottom right corner, tell me what you think of the detail work on the border. You like broccoli, right?”

He stopped right inside the kitchen and waited for the sound of the door opening to let Neal out. He didn’t hear anything. When he peeked back out into the main room he saw Neal hunched over the table. Something inside his chest clenched at the sight of the bumps of Neal’s spine, visible through the fabric of his t-shirt.

Moz hadn't been about to start cooking anything, actually, but he knew he had the makings for pasta and veggies. And maybe, if he remembered correctly, some cocoa powder in one of his cupboards and a large enough cake pan in the cabinet for what he had planned.

He talked as he mixed all of the ingredients together, because whenever he paused the silence became painfully oppressive. Neal ate the entire plate of pasta that Moz put in front of him and a couple glasses of orange juice (he asked for wine and Moz, in a blatant fib, pretended he was out). He refused a second helping of pasta but Moz wasn’t bothered – he had something in mind that he knew Neal wouldn’t turn down.

He brought out a wooden spoon dripping with cake batter and got his first smile from Neal that night. “Taste. Do you think it needs more sugar?"

Neal closed his eyes and opened his mouth and Moz leaned forward and kissed him.

“Definitely needs more sugar,” Neal whispered. Moz smiled, let Neal lick the batter off the spoon, and kissed him again. Neal's thin hands clutched at his cardigan, tugging him closer. He went easily into the V of Neal’s thighs.

“Just let me put this into the oven – ” Neal shook his head and tightened his hold and licked around Moz's lips, stealing every last taste of chocolate from his mouth. It was several minutes before Neal would let him go. He tasted like rich chocolate and dark wine, stale breath underneath. “Brush your teeth and I’ll let you lick the icing off the mixer.”

When Neal came back into the kitchen his breath was minty and he was naked, bottle of lube in one hand. “I’m cold. Gonna help warm me up?”

The cake was in the oven for forty-five minutes, and Neal demanded that Moz fuck him for every one of them. With his cock and then his fingers and finally with the buttplug that Neal had brought over with him one memorable night. He fucked Neal open, loose, fucked him until he begged and then fucked harder.

When the timer dinged he put icing first on the cake and then on Neal’s nipples. Licked the boy’s chest clean and then drizzled it down the ridges of his ribs.

Neal’s breath was shaky, but his hold on Moz's body was tight and desperate. Almost painfully so, not that Moz would dare mention it for fear that Neal would let go. He fed Neal icing off of his fingers, off of his cock, on top of slice after slice of Devil’s Food Cake.

Neal – smooth, cool, untouchable Neal – leaned into every touch, kissed every bit of Moz his lips could reach, devoured the cake and reached for Moz's body like he'd been starving for a lot more than just food for a lot longer than just five weeks.

“That was delicious,” Neal mumbled, when they'd both collapsed onto the kitchen floor, naked and covered in crumbs. “You should open up a bakery or something.”

“Nah – it’s a life of crime for me, I'm afraid.”

“Can’t we have crime _and_ cake?” Neal sounded so hopeful Moz couldn't help but smile.

“Sure. Crime and cake.” If anyone could make it happen, it would be Neal. Impossible, magical, starving Neal.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?” Neal asked a few minutes later, his voice gone cold and curious.

Moz had to think about it before he could answer. “No,” he decided. Because his apartment might be a waystation more than it was a home, but he never wanted Neal to feel unwelcome there. “I’m not going to ask.”

*

Two days later Moz made a second cake. Angel’s Food Cake, that time, to balance things out. He brought the pan into the bedroom and set it on the bedside table. He went to crack open a window – the room _reeked_ of sex – and watched the cloud of his breath dissipate into the night.

“I was at home,” Neal whispered, when Moz was preoccupied with the stars and the taste of sugar on his tongue and the aches of his body. “In case you were wondering.” Neal was so quiet Moz could barely hear him. So quiet that if he wanted to he could pretend he hadn’t heard, because – because what was he supposed to say?

Moz had promised himself months ago that he wouldn’t interfere. Wouldn’t even try. Would leave Neal to live his life and make his own mistakes. But when he looked at Neal, naked and curled up in his bed, holding the fork with the bent tines in his graceful hand, about to eat the food that Moz had made for him – all of the promises he’d made himself went out the window like so much smoke.

“Don’t go there again,” he said. And it sounded kind of like a question but mostly like – like a plea. “Don’t go back there again.”

“It’s my home,” Neal replied with a helpless shrug of his bony shoulders. “Where else am I supposed to go?”

“Here. You can stay here.”

They didn’t talk about it again. But after that night Neal stopped leaving without an explanation and Moz stopped pretending that he didn’t want Neal to stay.

*

“You should buy shelves.”

“I don’t need shelves.”

Neal huffed at him. “Because you don’t have anything. You should have things, and you’ll need places to put them. Which means shelves.”

“You’re a maniac,” Moz said fondly.

“And you’re a reclusive hermit. Don’t you want your hermitage to be welcoming? Cozy? Less like a storage unit? You should enjoy spending time in your house, Moz!”

 _I do enjoy spending time here,_ Moz almost said, before he realized that the only times he wasn’t too absorbed in his work to notice the apartment was when Neal was around. And when he was noticing Neal, well – he was a bit too busy to notice the little things. Like that fact that he didn’t have shelves. Or enough hangers for his clothes. Or any pictures up on the walls. Neal, though – Neal noticed those things. “Alright. Let’s go buy shelves.”

“And books,” Neal decided. “And some clothes. Denim really isn’t your friend, Moz, and neither is the t-shirt. You’re not in college anymore.”

Moz swallowed, hard. This was not going to be fun.

*

Moz didn’t go out much. Not in the daytime, anyway. Most of his business could be done over the phone, and he didn’t like wide-open spaces. Or small spaces. Or any spaces that were full of people, because he didn’t like people, either, but – but Neal was glowing with excitement and bouncing with energy. “Have you ever thought about wearing scarves, Moz?” They were in some vintage store that Moz had never heard of. Neal had not only heard of it, but was on first-name terms with the owner.

“In the winter. Because otherwise my neck would get cold.”

“Right, okay, that’s very good. But you should think about wearing scarves other times, too – it would give you an air of mystery. Of sophistication.”

Moz wrinkled his nose. “I have an air of sophistication?”

Neal started rifling through another rack of suit jackets. “You can have one, if you dress for it. You can be whatever you want,” he said smoothly, dropping another corduroy jacket with leather patches on the elbows onto the pile that Moz was wilting underneath. He pulled out a grey jacket and tried it on himself. He gave a twirl and Moz rolled his eyes.

“I don’t want to be an eighty-year old English professor, Neal.” He tried to put the jacket back but his arms were too full to maneuver.

“Which is why you should try scarves. And retro shirts. Do you like paisley?”

Neal took off for the racks of shirts in the back of the store and Moz staggered after him.

Eventually Neal just left Moz in a dressing room and popped in every so often like a demented Santa Claus bearing piles of clothes.

Moz stood in front of the mirror in a dark purple shirt, a black scarf, and corduroy pants that were at least a size to small on him and felt utterly ridiculous. Neal looked like a Ken doll, of course he enjoyed clothes shopping, but Moz – he looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like Mr. Potato Head.

He felt self-conscious. In a way he mostly managed not to be, around Neal. But with the fluorescent lights and the pants that were just a bit too tight, having Neal there made him feel like – like the pudgy kid he’d been in middle school PE.

“Can we stop playing dress-up now?”

Neal dropped his latest finds onto the bench and frowned at him. “Why? I think that jacket looks great on you – ”

“Please,” he said quietly. “Don’t patronize me. I look like a nerdy English professor. A fat, nerdy English professor.” Neal’s mouth worked like a fish out of water and Moz tried to smile (knew from his reflection in the mirror that it looked more like a grimace). “I know you meant well, with this whole shopping expedition, but – ”

“Shut up,” Neal hissed. Moz startled backwards, surprised by the vehemence in Neal’s voice. “Just – just shut up. You don’t look like that,” he insisted. Moz gestured at the mirror and Neal reached out and smacked his hand down. “You just need to find the right clothes. Of course you’ll look bad in clothes that won’t fit you, everyone does, you just – you just have to learn to look at yourself right.”

“I am looking at myself.”

“No,” Neal said, voice gone quiet. “You’re not. You’re delusional. You’re gorgeous,” he whispered. “You, Moz, are the best thing that ever happened to me.” His voice and expression were so earnest, so honest, that Moz wished that they were anywhere else. Wished they were back in his apartment with the lights off, wished he wasn’t wearing clothes that didn’t fit him in a store he didn’t belong in. He opened his mouth to protest and Neal shut him up by sticking his tongue in his mouth.

“Just because you shut me up doesn’t mean you win the argument,” he said when Neal let him up for breath.

Neal kissed him again, slower this time, and then he kissed his way across Moz’s jaw, down his neck, over the bit of his chest that the partially unbuttoned shirt revealed, and ended up on his knees. He unzipped the slacks and mouthed at Moz’s cock through his boxers, fingers tracing the red indentations in his stomach where the waistband of the pants had pressed into him.

“Neal, you shouldn’t – ”

Neal ignored him, pulling his cock out and then drawing him into the wet heat of his mouth, seconds later swallowed him deep into his throat.

Moz wove his fingers into Neal’s hair and fucked his mouth. Tightened his grip and went a bit faster to make Neal moan, loud enough that the people outside could hear, hard enough to make him lose control.

When he looked in the mirror, he saw – he stopped moving, his cock buried in Neal’s throat and his hands in Neal’s hair. He looked – with the scarf and the deep purple shirt, even the stupid jacket, the pants down around his thighs – he didn’t look bad. Neal started to pull back and Moz let him, watching the slide of Neal’s lips in the mirror, the way his bottom lip dragged across his cock. He almost looked like he belonged with Neal.

“Thank you,” he whispered when Neal finished him off.

Neal smiled and flicked his tongue across his bottom lip. Moz’s cock jolted painfully at the sight. “You’re welcome. Now stay here while I get a couple more outfits for you to try on, and I’ll do it again.”

Moz was starting to think that maybe he could get the hang of this whole shopping thing.

*

When spring rolled around, things went bad. He heard the door open and sat up on the couch. It was Monday – Neal had said he'd be back Saturday, but he got wrapped up in things sometimes, got trapped and waited too long to ask for help. “Neal,” he said warmly, when he stepped into the apartment. Walked over and reached for Neal’s face to cup the familiar line of his jaw in the cradle of his hand. And Neal flinched.

He knew there were dark patches of Neal's past, knew that he'd been hurt, but he'd never – somehow Moz had never triggered him before. Neal had never thought that Moz posed a threat. Until today. Moz didn’t want to know what had changed. The hand that he shoved back in his pocket was shaking. “What happened?”

Neal shook his head, wouldn't make eye contact, licked his lips and started to speak a couple of times before he could find the right words. “I’m sorry.”

The silence went on too long and he didn’t know what to say. He’d never been that good with his own words and anyway Neal always understood him best when he wasn’t saying anything at all. So he tried again – and Neal let Moz touch him, that time, let him slowly brush his thumb over the stubble that still looked out-of-place on his face. But when Moz tried to kiss him again, Neal pulled back. “Please, Moz – don’t.”

Neal had never said no to him before. Moz had never asked for anything he hadn’t been willing to give, and all he’d asked for this time was a kiss.

“We should wait,” Neal whispered. “I should – ” Neal bit his lip and turned until Moz could barely see his face, the unfamiliar friction of stubble across his hand as Neal moved out of reach. “I need to get tested. Before we do anything. If you – if you still want to.”

Oh.

Neal had – he'd done – Moz didn’t want to think about it. _Couldn’t_ think about it.

“Thanks for telling me,” he said, dumbly, mind running a mile a minute yet somehow staying in exactly the same place, caught in that terrifying moment of realization. Neal needed to get tested. “Are you okay?” Neal’s eyes closed and his lips tightened into a grimace, he looked like he was in pain. Like he was about to cry. As if Moz had hurt him, somehow, just by asking if he’d been hurt.

“I'm fine.” Neal didn't sound fine. Moz started to go to him but stopped, not sure about what to do, not sure if he should let his anger go or if he even had the right to _be_ angry. Was it even anger that he felt? This burn inside, the thought of someone else’s hands discovering the parts of Neal’s body that Moz had kissed and stroked and loved. And before his indecision ended Neal sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”

Moz had always known that Neal was never going to be his. Never wanted to own him, never wanted Neal to be glued to his side – Moz wanted to be alone as much as he wanted the thrill of the con. Neal was meant for something else. Something bigger, something better than what Moz could offer him. A small apartment and an empty bed on the nights he was too busy to sleep.

“Will you tell me what happened?”

Neal’s eyes, when he finally looked at Moz, were red-rimmed and swollen and ancient in their secrets. “No.”

He didn’t say anything else that night and Moz tried to stop asking questions. He heated up leftover stew for Neal to eat and opened a new box of oyster crackers. Made decaf coffee and stirred in hazelnut creamer, insisted that Neal try the ice cream he was learning to make.

That night, when Neal stripped to go to bed, Moz looked at his body and saw bruises. More defined than he’d seen before. When Neal had still been going home he’d come back marked, but never like this. He wondered how long Neal had waited between being at home and being at Moz’s to give the bruises time to fade. Wondered where he’d gone.

He could see individual points where fingertips had dug into Neal’s hips. Bite marks on his shoulders deep enough to bleed. Scrapes that had barely scabbed over on his knees.

“Please tell me who did this,” he whispered, but Neal stayed silent. “Do you want to take a bath before bed?” Neal nodded. “Do you want me to come with?”

The tub was really too small for both of them. Moz sat with his back against the tub, Neal with his back against Moz, curled up with his knees pulled tight to his chest. “Are you comfortable enough?” he asked, cupping some water in his hands to pour it down Neal’s back. He stroked his hands down Neal’s arms and felt him shake, wrapped himself around Neal’s body and realized he was crying, silently, face hidden between his knees.

*

When Moz was starting out he did every job that was offered him and even some that had been offered to other people (but that he’d known he could do better). He’d made the effort to be – if not charming, at least pleasant. Reliable, eccentric, good at keeping his mouth shut, and completely under the radar of any law enforcement agencies. Over the years his reputation had solidified, his network of contacts had grown exponentially, and the favors that he was able to call in had slowly accumulated.

So when he slipped out of bed in the middle of the night and started making phone calls he came up with a name.

James Holden Rudnick.

A good man to have on the job if you were expecting trouble and needed some muscle. Former black-ops with an honorable discharge and enough connections with his buddies still in the service that he was able to keep himself out of trouble. He’d been arrested a couple of times, but the charges had never stuck.

Moz had started in the business on his own, but he wasn’t just looking out for himself anymore. He had people to protect. The power to carry out his own form of justice.

*

Over the next week Neal forged three paintings, read five books of poetry as well as _Ulysses_ , ate more than Moz thought possible, and slept about twelve hours a day. He slept on the couch, now – usually with a book tipped over on his chest and the lamp still on. He wore the one ratty sweater he hadn’t made Moz throw out and a pair of flannel pants that were a bit too short and a bit too wide on him. He looked tired, when he woke up and when he fell asleep. 

Moz knew that the fact that Neal wasn’t putting on a mask for him was monumental. So he baked every morning, and sat on the recliner instead of on the couch when he worked in the living room, recommended new books to Neal, made sure he had enough paint and canvas, and left him alone.

And when Neal was asleep he went into the bedroom with the phone and called in his favors.

*

It took four months for his plans to come to fruition. About the same time that Neal’s test results came back in ( _clean, thank God, thank_ God), James Holden Rudnick went on what he thought was a standard B&E. And instead of finding an old couple asleep in their beds and a wall of Picassos, he found a Doberman, a back-up alarm system with a direct line to the NYPD, and a retired cop who slept with a gun underneath her pillow.

They wouldn’t be seeing James Holden Rudnick for seven to ten years. Longer than that, if Moz had any say in it. Which he did. His buddy in corrections was only a phone call away, and Moz had the number memorized.

Getting revenge didn't make him feel better. Didn't make it any easier when Neal flinched from him. The bruises had faded, but Neal still had miles to go before the wounds healed. 

He couldn’t be with Neal every second of his life. Wouldn’t want to be even if he could. He couldn’t protect Neal from his own mistakes and the world’s cruelty. But he could make sure that the word got out that if you messed with Caffrey, you’d go down. _Hard_.

*

Over the years they moved a half-dozen times. Neal decorated each new apartment, Moz filled up the kitchens, and together they played host to a string of strays that Neal brought home, presenting each of them to Moz like a kid with a wounded animal. Trusting Moz to be able to heal all of their wounds the way he’d tried to do for Neal. He didn’t know why – all he knew how to do was bake cakes and fold out couches and make phone calls. And something else, something he’d never had to learn, not even when he was newly turned five and his hands were almost too small. He was older now and his hands were bigger, but when he held Neal his palms still went as sweaty as they did when he’d cradled the Faberge egg. Neal was beautiful and fragile and Moz loved him.


End file.
